


Driftwood, Vol. III

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Gay Sex, M/M, One Shot Collection, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Miscellaneous prompts, fills, and other assorted Dragon Age vignettes for 2018 - 2019.Mostly Fenris/Male Hawke and Dorian/Trevelyan, with other characters tossed in the mix.





	1. Haven (Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan)

Trevelyan was unfairly attractive.

Dorian wasn't the only one to notice. Flissa spilled beer down her frock every time she served him, Cullen dropped his reports three times as often, and even Mother Giselle got some color in her cheeks when he offered his hand to help her off her horse. Clever, wicked, and just a touch menacing, it came as no surprise that when Trevelyan finally made his way up the frozen steps to check on him that Dorian's mouth went dry.

"Has anyone bothered you?" Trevelyan stood with his arms folded, the wind tugging his duster against his lean frame.

Dorian was very close to asking him to bother him over the nearest barrel. "Other than a dollop of phlegm in my morning porridge courtesy of the cook, and asnow ballthrown at my head that I'm fairly certain was sprinkled with horse piss, no, not that I can recall."

Trevelyan's thick brows knitted together. It made him look more than a little frightening, and Dorian felt warmth puddle in his groin.

"Come find me the next time anyone tries anything. This isn't Tevinter. Things don't work the same in the south for people like us."

Dorian's heart skipped a beat at that last part, until he realized what he meant. "This isn't Tevinter? Funny, I was wondering why people keep looking at me like I'm about to set their fields on fire."

Trevelyan stepped very close to him, and Dorian could smell the pine sap on his duster and the sweat on his skin. His voice was muffled by his hood and the gently falling snow. "Things can turn fast for a mage down here. I've agreed to help the Inquisition seal the Breach, but beyond that I have no illusions. I've already told Solas I'll get him out if things go bad. The same offer extends to you."

"And here I thought the Herald of Andraste was a good little Circle mage," said Dorian, stepping back.

"That is the story," murmured Trevelyan. 

He turned to leave, and something wild and stupid in Dorian made him call out, "Oh? The propaganda didn't exactly take into account that the Maker must have had impure thoughts when he chose you."

Trevelyan raised a suspicious brow, as if he'd never been flirted with in his life. Somehow, it only made Dorian want to pull him near again so he can study the way those dark brows moved on his face.

Not that the view of Trevelyan's backside leaving down the steps was a bad sight either. 


	2. Pyre (Iron Bull)

Bull doesn’t get it.

He leans on his great-axe while Vivienne and Trevelyan take apart the ocularum. Their group has spent the last three days using the skull to find shards along the Storm Coast, and now it’s time to move on. It would be quicker if they just _went_.

Instead, they’re wasting time holding a funeral for a skull.

Vivienne holds open a sack while Trevelyan twists the skull up the spike it’s been impaled on. He takes his time with it, shifting it back and forth gently. No one complains. Iron Bull wants to complain, because the rain is cold as fuck, but he learned a long time ago that rushing the mages is a bad idea. So, he stands with Varric and watches, annoyed and confused.

The skull eventually scoots up the top of the spike. Trevelyan turns it around in his hands, removes its gems, and drops it in the sack. Vivienne twists the sack closed and tosses it over her shoulder.

“Finally,” murmurs Bull.

He wishes Varric would say something back to make him feel better about complaining, but the dwarf remains silent.

The two mages walk downhill to a meadow. The grass is squishy, and water pools around their boots. They take the sack with the skull to the pyre that has been prepared for them by the Inquisition scouts.

Maybe it’s the Qunari in Bull, but mourning is a waste of time. The person’s already gone, and a Tranquil? The Tranquil are barely people.

But he follows them. Vivienne opens the sack and takes the Tranquil skull out. She sets it on the pyre and steps back. Trevelyan makes a little barrier above his head to shelter them from the rain and takes a ledger from his pack. It’s the same book he took from the hut in Redcliffe—the one the Venatori used to record the names of the Tranquil they harvested.

“Rolo of the Circle of Val Chevin,” he says. “Our brother, our colleague. I’m sorry we couldn’t save you.”

Vivienne flicks her arm. The pyre lights. They stand and watch the skull burn. Fire licks black around its eye sockets. After an hour, the bone collapses in on itself. Cinders spiral up into the rain like stray threads of light, before dying out one by one.

Vivienne and Trevelyan stand still the entire time. The Arcane Advisor to the Imperial Court, and a rebel mage, stand shoulder to shoulder and say nothing at all, as if any of this makes sense.

Bull doesn’t get it.

“I mean, that Tranquil guy was deader than dead,” says Bull, walking behind Varric on the way back to camp. “Why do this over and over when we could be helping someone still alive?”

“Isn't it obvious?” says Varric. He’s stuffy, and probably has a cold from the rain. “This war is different for them than it is for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“You and I look at the mage rebellion as a pain in the ass, something that makes trade and normal life inconvenient. But for them?”

He nods to the two mages walking further up the path. Trevelyan maintains a barrier above his head, shielding both himself and Vivienne from the rain.

"It could have just as easily been one of their heads on that spike, had the chips fallen a little differently. No matter their politics, they recognize that in each other. That Tranquil wasn't a skull to them. It was them. And everyone like them, too." 

"I guess," says Bull. "Do _you_ really give a shit about a bunch of skulls, though?" 

"No," sighs Varric. "But maybe I should." 

Iron Bull huffs. He can’t imagine any value to be found in the skull of a person whose brain was turned to mush by a brand. What does did it matter, once a person is gone like that?

But maybe he isn't in a position to understand. He will never be Tranquil. He will never know the fear of Tranquility. Maybe that's all there is to it.

“Hey,” he shouts. Vivienne and Trevelyan turn around on the path ahead. Bull rips a giant frond off the bush beside him and hands it to them. “Here, this’ll take less concentration. You know, in case we get ambushed.”

Trevelyan takes the frond. One of his thick eyebrows raises. Vivienne’s face is a mask as always.

“Thank you, my dear,” she says. “How uncharacteristically throughtful of you.”

Bull supposes, for now, it's a step toward understanding.


	3. Persuasion (Dorian Pavus/Male Adaar) (nsfw)

“You want me to what?” said Adaar. 

“I want you to spank me,” said Dorian.  

Adaar rolled off him and sat on the edge of the bed, all heat of the previous hour doused. “But why?”

“Because I crave a little sting.” Dorian tried to sound cheerful, but the words came out peevish. “Is that such an odd request?”  

Adaar hunched his shoulders. “You want me to hurt you?”  

Dorian suspected this would happen. The Inquisitor might have been a terror on the battlefield, but in the bedroom he was as gentle as a kitten. It was a source of consternation on Dorian’s part. He appreciated Adaar’s affection, but craved a little roughness.

“Pain can be pleasurable,” said Dorian patiently. “We can establish rules—words to make sure things don’t get taken too far. Violence can make the sweetness all the sweeter.”

“But why?”

Dorian stroked Adaar’s thigh soothingly. “It’s something I enjoy. Don’t you want to make me feel good?”

Adaar buried his face in his hands.

Damn it all. “Now, now.” Dorian stroked Adaar’s scarred back.

“Is that what you think of me? That I’m just some brute? Some big dumb animal who likes to hurt people?”

“Don’t be absurd. It’s nothing like that. It’s just a game, a silly bedroom game. Surely you’ve heard of lovers doing such things?”

“Bull hurts the people he beds,” said Adaar, with slight reproach. 

“Yes.” Dorian often heard high, pained gasps coming from the Iron Bull’s bedroom window, followed by sobs of pleasure. More than once, he had gone to bed hard, wondering about all the things the giant mercenary would do to him in that same room, should he ever ask. 

He never would, of course. What he and Adaar had was deeper and more intimate than any cheap thrill, and the jealousy was entirely misplaced.

Still, Dorian wondered if the universe was laughing at him by sending this softer, gentler Qunari.

“We don’t have to be that extreme,” said Dorian. At least not at first. “We can start small. Won’t you try, at least? For me?”

Adaar wiped his eyes. He refused to look at Dorian, staring instead at the empty bottle of wine on the bedside table. “You promise you’re not asking for this because I’m Vashoth?”

“Your wonderful size is a bonus, amatus, but I would want this from you no matter who you were.” Dorian kissed his shoulder.  

“Fine,” said Adaar.

Dorian lay down across his lap, positioning his ass so that it was an easy target. “Give me a swat, a small one.”

Adaar raised his hand. It hung there in the air, massive and calloused and heavy as a hammer. Dorian's erection throbbed in anticipation.

A moment later, Adaar burst into tears.

Dorian sighed and sat up. He gathered his massive lover against his chest. “There, there,” he whispered.

“How could think I’d ever lay a hand on you?” sobbed Adaar. "You insensitive sadist." 

“That’s not—oh, nevermind. We’ll cuddle tonight,” said Dorian.  

The universe was laughing at him. 


	4. Banner (Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan)

“You truly have nowhere to be this morning?” panted Dorian.  

“Well.” Trevelyan rocked into him. “There was one thing.”

“Oh?” Dorian closed his eyes. Trevelyan had him pinned to the mattress, his hips digging him deeper and deeper into the sheets. They had woken early together in the predawn chill and pounced on each other. The smell of sweat and shit and sour breath was thick in the air, and Dorian loved it. “Who am I stealing you from?”

“Ser Mallory.”

“Who?”

“Some Templar.”

Dorian lost the rhythm. Templar? There were no Templars in the Inquisition—the former Knight-Captain not included. The very idea was absurd. Templars avoided Trevelyan at all costs nowadays, given his policies regarding them.  

“Rather bold of him. What did he want?” asked Dorian.

“Shh,” said Trevelyan. “Hush.”

Dorian did. He gave himself over, and let the Inquisitor pull him under.   

 

* * *

 

When they were done, they lay together in a heap of sticky limbs, a wet spot spreading on the sheets beneath them.

“So, you cancelled the meeting with the Templar this morning,” said Dorian.

“Hm.” Trevelyan’s head rested on Dorian’s shoulder.

“Won’t Josephine be cross with you?”

“I would have thought you’d be happy to keep me in bed this long.”

That was true. Trevelyan left most mornings before Dorian woke, off to meetings and war table briefings. To be lying here like this was enough to make his heart ache. It was terrible to think that the passion of this early stage of their relationship was being attritioned by the demands of a relentless and greedy war. Dorian, who had wasted entire summers in the arms of men whose names he barely remembered, was bitter to find he now had to steal time with the man he loved.

“I’m not complaining,” he said, tracing his fingertips down Trevelyan’s back. “But I don't want to get you in trouble."

"There's no trouble to be had."

"If the man came all the way here to see you, he's likely to stomp his foot at being turned away." 

“He can stomp his foot all he likes in the dungeon.”

“In the—what?”

“Ser Mallory arrived at Skyhold last night with a battalion of his comrades,” said Trevleyan. “They came to join the Inquisition and volunteer their services. They had some very interesting ideas about what we should do with our rebel mages.”

“Oh dear.”

“I told them what I tell everyone of their order. They could join us on the condition that they give up lyrium and swear off their holy calling.”

“I take it they didn't.”

“Hence why I cancelled the meeting.”

“Not the welcome they were hoping for.”

“No, but the one they deserve.”

Dorian considered that. It was chilling to think that he owed this morning’s lovemaking to the imprisonment of dozens of men and women, but given everything he had heard about the Templars’ views on the rightful place of mages, he supposed he couldn’t feel too sorry.

“Incidentally,” said Dorian, “do you have a rag I can clean up with?”

Trevelyan was silent for a moment. “Hold on.”

Trevelyan rose and went downstairs. A moment later he returned, carrying a bundle of heavy red cloth in his arms.

“Is that—?”

“That Templar banner that was hanging in my stairwell?” Trevelyan took a dagger from the bedside table and began to cut it to shreds. “As if I would ever desecrate such a holy standard.”

Dorian laughed. He took the offered swatch of cloth and used it to wipe between his buttocks.

“It is an awful lot of standard,” said Dorian.

“It is,” said Trevelyan.

“How much longer do we have until your next appointment?”

“I’d say about forty-five minutes. An hour, if we make it count.”

“Then let’s,” said Dorian, and dragged him back down into the sheets.


	5. Villa (Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In reference to https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Grand_Forest_Villa

Dorian found the Grand Forest Villa to be depressingly beautiful. Every floor had an open courtyard with golden autumn trees, and the cold wind sang its way down every open staircase and corridor. He wandered his way through a second-floor garden and ran his fingers along the flank of a mossy statue of Andraste, taking in the view.

“Rather odd to leave a place like this derelict for so long,” he said. "Though with the war going on, I suppose it's not surprising." 

“Do you know the story behind it?” said Trevelyan, sitting on a nearby stone bench.

“Of course, I know the story behind every hunting villa in the freezing Fereldan wilderness,” said Dorian.

If his voice had an edge to it, well, he was tired. They had spent the last hour clearing the bandits out of this place, and his arms ached from swinging his staff. He sincerely hoped the Guerrins appreciated all that the Inquisition did for them.

“This place was built by Lord Jacen Guerrin a long time ago,” said Trevelyan. “For his special friend, Corram the Bard.”

“Special friend.”

“So the histories say.”

The more Dorian saw of the south, the more he realized how little difference there was between it and Tevinter. “Let me guess, Ser Jacen built it in order to keep the peace with his wife?”

“Evidently,” said Trevelyan. "It was a way to avoid scandal.”

“Of course.”

The smell of burning reached Dorian’s nose from the lower courtyards. There was a body smoldering down there, courtesy of him. He suddenly wished he was anywhere else but here. It seemed a chief irony that he would run all the way from Tevinter only to end up in the architectural embodiment of his shame.

He became aware of Trevelyan watching him. The man was as unsettling as a vulture, grim and gaunt inside his black coat.  

“They say when Ser Corram died, he was wrapped in Lord Jacen’s hunting cloak," said Trevelyan. "The wife had him burned with full honors.”

“Yes, what an honor,” said Dorian. 

“You would have preferred Lord Corram have the ring instead?”

“It simply seems small reward for a lifetime of having been hidden away like a dirty secret. But I digress. I’m sure it makes for a very pretty song.”

It was a pitiful attempt at an exit, and Dorian wished he had never opened his mouth. He had revealed too much, to a man who likely would not understand him.

“Does it bother you?” asked Trevelyan.

“Does it bother _you_?”

“Mages are not permitted to marry,” said Trevelyan. “And we get locked away in shame no matter what we do. I always liked the song. It seemed romantic."

Romantic. What a thing to believe. What a thing to accept. “If that’s what you’re willing to settle for, then by all means, I’m sure it’s very romantic.”

“Would you not settle for it?” asked Trevelyan.

“If you’re asking if I’d be willing to be put away in some beautiful cage out in the middle of the forest, pining away for a man who has to spend six days of the week with his wife, then no. I’d leave.”

“I see. It’s good that you feel that way.”

“Oh?”

“It means you have a backbone.”

The Herald fell silent after that. After a few minutes, Trevelyan took out a pipe and lit it. The smell of elfroot floated over the courtyard, mingling with the smells of burning flesh below.

“Still,” said Trevelyan at last, “I like the part about the cloak.”

Dorian scoffed and turned his collar up against the wind. He would never say it, but the rest of the day his mind lingered on that refrain as well. The lonely Corram, having outlived his beloved, burned in his love’s hunting cloak.

 _I will never pine away for a man like that,_ he told himself, staring at the back of Trevelyan’s head as they rode out of the villa.

_I would rather die than live a life of distant longing like that._


	6. By Blood (Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampire AU

It was all Dorian’s fault. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t meddled with the coffin. He and Trevelyan had been exploring an ancient elven tomb, and Dorian, in a pique of necromancer’s curiosity, had lifted one of the heavy stone lids.

The slumbering creature inside had not taken kindly to that. It had grabbed Dorian by the neck and before he could react had pierced his flesh with two sharp fangs. Trevelyan had immolated the pale, shrieking, monster with a tornado of flame, but by then it was too late. Something twisted inside Dorian's blood, and he knew the magnitude of his mistake.

Within a day, he began to sicken. He panted in the sunlight like a dog and could swallow no food or water. His stomach clenched with unbearable nausea, and he was restless, so restless, as pain crawled and prickled under every inch of skin. Trevelyan cared for him as best he could, but after a few days he decided it best to call off the expedition and retreat to their villa in the south of Tevinter. The trip was agony, and Dorian spent day after day writhing in impossible thirst. The only relief came at night when the sun went down, and even then nothing could slake the hunger inside him.

A day's ride out from their home, Dorian grabbed Trevelyan and tried to tear his throat out.

Fortunately, Trevelyan was as quick with one arm as he had been with two. His metal prosthesis flared with runic fire and smacked Dorian about the side of the head, knocking him from the saddle. Dorian moaned on the ground, but the moment Trevelyan dismounted and ran to his side, he hissed.

“Sweet Maker." Trevelyan knelt over his stunned body. “Your _teeth_.”

Dorian ran his tongue over them. They had felt sharper over the last few days, but now they were like knives inside his mouth.

“The better to kiss you with,” he said, and went for Trevelyan again.

If he had not been so weak, he might have pulled it off. It frightened him, as he lay stunned again on the ground, to realize that he wished he had.

 

* * *

 

Trevelyan wrapped Dorian in enchanted chains. He threw him over his saddle and rode double-time down the backroads. Dorian howled like an animal the entire way back, and the servants recoiled in horror at the sight of him, dragged like a hissing carpetbag down the stairs of the his and Trevelyan’s house and thrown in the dark cellar.

“I’ll gut you, you skinny little slut!” Dorian screamed. He dashed himself on the stones, fighting against chains that burned against his skin. “I’ll drink the juices from your bowels with a spoon!”

The peephole in the door slid opened. “Dorian, please. You're only hurting yourself.” Trevelyan sounded exhausted.

“I’ll tear your pretty little throat out!” snarled Dorian. He kicked and rolled and dashed his head against the stones. “I’ll fuck you until you bleed!”

Trevelyan’s tired eyes stared down at him with something beyond sorrow. “I will find a way to fix this. I swear to you.”

“You had better! This is your fault. I would never have touched that blasted coffin if you would just let your minions hunt down Solas! You did this to us! You did this to me!”

The peephole slid shut. Dorian screamed in the darkness at the closed door.

After a time, his howling gave way to whimpering.

 

* * *

 

Some days later, the magic wards that had been etched onto the door went silent. Dorian’s mouth watered. He could smell a man standing outside the door—someone delicious and familiar.

What came through the door was not Trevelyan, but a black and white nanny goat. It was shoved hard into the cellar, and the door slammed shut behind it. 

The goat shivered in the corner with its rump pointed toward him. Dorian could feel its heartbeat in its veins. He could smell its blood sweeping along under its skin, spreading through flushed, full arteries into strong muscles and flesh.

The peephole slid open. “Dorian?” 

“Yes, dearest?” answered Dorian.

“Does the goat make you hungry?”

Drool dribbled down Dorian’s chin. A ten-thousand-year-old strip of salt jerky would have made him hungry at this point. “Yes.”

“I’ve been doing research.” Trevelyan’s voice sounded drained. Dorian could smell his stale sweat. “None of the texts I’ve studied say anything about animal flesh sating this unnatural hunger, but I know you must be starving.”

Dorian scrambled and thrashed against his chains. The goat stayed as far away from him as possible, watching him with its square-pupiled eyes.

“Unchain me,” he said.

“I will, but I want you to know that I've taken precautions. Promise me you won't do anything to hurt yourself further.”  

“Of course, I promise,” said Dorian. 

The peephole shut. The wards dimmed on the door once more.

Trevelyan stepped into the chamber. He held aloft a medallion that burned with bright white light. Dorian hissed and curled away from it. He shivered in pain as Trevelyan knelt beside him and carefully unlocked the chains that bound him. Trevelyan was back out the door before the spots had cleared from Dorian's eyes.

Dorian shook off the chains. His flesh was bruised and tender where the iron had cut into his flesh. He stretched himself, feeling an unholy power surge into him.

The goat bleated in the corner.

Dorian seized its neck and snapped it like a dry twig. His fangs plunged into the still throbbing artery of its neck and sucked its muddy, foul-tasting blood into his mouth. His tongue rejoiced at the wetness of blood, but the rest of his body ached as if he was drinking nothing but air.

After a few minutes, he threw the goat carcass against the wall.

“Wrong!” He clawed at his face. “Wrong!”

He flung himself at the door. His nails bit into the wood. He could hear it groaning against its frame.

“Give me your flesh.” He tried to scramble his fingers through the peephole. “You promised me when we married that you’d love and obey me. OBEY!”

Trevelyan cursed and shone the medallion in his face. Dorain drew back with a scream, and once more the wards flared to life.

Trevelyan’s eyes reappeared in the peephole, this time with tears. “Oh, love, I'm so sorry."

"Not yet, you aren't," said Dorian. 

The peephole slammed shut. Dorian was left alone in the darkness once more, hungrier than ever.

 

* * *

 

Time became formless after that. Days bled into unending nights of darkness. What strength had returned at the promise of goat-flesh seeped out of Dorian. He was left weaker than before, and every hour drained him further. His throat was cracked and dry, and his flesh became papery to the touch.

As the rage inside him subsided, quieter emotions moved in. He had read enough books to know what he was and what damnation meant. This was his life now. This was what he would always be.

A few months ago, he and Trevelyan had exchanged vows in the grape orchard outside the Pavus family estate. It had been the happiest day of his life. Not once had he ever dared hope that he would find a man to marry, and now…here he was. Sera had chucked handfuls of rice at them, Varric had read bawdy poetry at the reception, and Cassandra had sat in the front row and cried the whole time. And Trevelyan….

Trevelyan had smiled at Dorian with such quiet assurance that all of Dorian’s nervousness had faded. They had made it. They were alive and they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. The two little boys who had been thrown away by their families had found a new family. Trevelyan’s eyes had filled with tears, and Dorian had kissed them away.

Dorian touched his face. His fangs protruded over his lips, aching to the touch. He had done this to them. This was their life now. Nothing could cure him. This cellar was his new home, and Trevelyan was his prisoner in duty and love.

Tears slid down his face. “I’m so sorry,” he told the darkness. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Dorian?”

He glanced over. The peephole was open.

“Amatus?” he said.

“I've been corresponding with mages from the College and the Imperial Circles,” said Trevelyan. His voice was a tired croak. “They haven't found anything, yet.”

“I’m so thirsty, amatus.” Dorian began to weep.

“I know. Just hold on. You have to promise me that you’ll hold on until I can make things right.”

Dorian shook his head. “I can’t. It’s driving me mad. Please, can’t you just—” Dorian hated himself even as he said it. “Can’t you give me one of the servants?”

“No.” The door creaked as Trevelyan leaned against it. “I can’t do that.”

“A prisoner, then. Write to Maevaris, she'll find someone: a lowlife no one will miss.”

The silence was longer this time. “I don’t think it will ever end if I do that.”

Dorian let out a sob.

“I’m not going to let you die, Dorian,” said Trevelyan. “But you're right. This was my mistake. I should never have let you come with me. My hunt for Solas is my sin alone. I won’t let you pay for it.”

"No," said Dorian. "It was both our faults. We should never have been there. We belong here, at home, with each other. I'm so tired of fighting. I'm so tired of not living the life we were supposed to have." 

"Don't say that. There's still time. We're going to be together." 

“It hurts,” said Dorian.

“I need you to trust me. Just give me more time.”

The beast was whimpering in Dorians’ veins. He would tear his own flesh apart soon.

But he remembered the way Trevelyan smiled at him the day they got married. Trevelyan had a knack for pulling off impossible things, even with the most hopeless of men.

“I trust you,” whispered Dorian, against every instinct, with tears sliding down his face. “I trust you.”

Trevelyan kissed his fingertips and touched the inside of the door. Then the peephole shut, leaving Dorian alone in darkness.

 

* * *

 

It was weeks later that the door opened.

Dorian lifted his head from his arms. He’d been squatting so long in the corner that he felt mummified. The bright spears of the medallion stabbed into his eyes, and he raised his arm to shield himself.

“I’m here,” said Trevelyan. “Can you stand for me?”

“I don’t think I can,” whispered Dorian.

Trevelyan was silent. Then he tapped the medallion, and the light snuffed out.

Blessed darkness rushed back in. Dorian realized there was nothing between him and Trevelyan now. Trevelyan, with his gallons of fresh blood. Trevelyan, with his four-chambered heart pinching and pushing blood through his arteries. Dorian could hear it squishing in the fat veins on the back of Trevelyan’s pale hands, smell it as it watered his brain and his muscles and his guts.

His nostrils flared, and drool filled his mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Making things right,” said Trevelyan. He sounded preternaturally calm. He had lost weight, and his beard had grown in. 

Dorian licked his lips. His arms clicked as he unfolded them. He stood up with a strength he did not realize he still possessed. Trevelyan was there, right there, and he smelled delicious.

“No.” Dorian threw himself back against the wall. “Go away.”

“It’s all right,” said Trevelyan.

“No.”

“I've searched and searched, and all the texts say the same thing,” said Trevelyan. “The only solution is blood, and there's only one person in the world who bears the responsibility for that."

Trevelyan stepped closer.

Dorian shrieked in rage. His body was pulling him two different directions—one away from, and one toward his husband.

“I don't think you want to harm me,” said Trevelyan. “And I know that if you have the power to control this, you will.”

“There has to be another way.”

“I don't think there is.” Trevelyan unlaced the top of his tunic and pulled it away from his neck. The veins shone like amethyst beneath his skin. “If things go too far, I have my magic.”

“I’m stronger than you think.”

“I know. That’s why I trust you.”

“This isn’t what I wanted! Get someone, anyone else!”

“I wouldn’t be the man you married if I did that. Here, love, come here. Let me be with you.”

Dorian couldn’t resist. He loomed over Trevelyan. He wanted to tear him to pieces. He wanted to rip his head off and drink from the gushing fountain of his neck.

But Trevelyan was trusting him.

_Resist. Control yourself._

Dorian’s hands trembled as he slid them around Trevelyan. Trevelyan craned his neck to the side, exposing its ticking veins.

Dorian lowered his mouth to them. His fangs were drawn as if by a magnet. He hovered there, chattering in the back of his throat like a mad animal, while Trevelyan pressed against him.

His fangs slid home without resistance.

Dorian thrilled at it. Strength poured into his arms, and he held Trevelyan hard until he was immobile, helpless in his grasp. He could taste the fear pouring off him, the doubt.

Blood pooled around his lips.

A groan escaped him as the first drops ran down his throat. Every nerve flared white hot in his brain. Life surged into him as he suckled from Trevelyan's throat, lathing his tongue against hot flesh. Dorian felt himself go into a sort of trance, his mind intent only on the taste of blood and the gentle kissing and lapping of his mouth on startled prey.

 _Control_.

He was taking too much. He would need to stop before it was too late, but he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to drink it all. He wanted to drink every drop of blood from Trevelyan’s veins until all of Trevelyan’s life was inside him, forever, sustaining him for eternity. He wanted to suck his marrow and lick the corners of his heart until not a drop of this man remained.

_Control._

_I trust you._

Dorian glanced sideways and saw a ball of fire next to his head. Trevelyan’s hand trembled as he struggled to maintain the magic. Their eyes met. The flames guttered out, and he dropped his arm.

 _No, you will not hurt me,_ thought Dorian. _Even as I murder you, you will not hurt me._

With monstruous restraint, Dorian drew his fangs back from Trevelyan's neck.

_And I will not hurt you, dear heart._

There must have been a coagulating agent in Dorian’s saliva, because the twin holes on Trevelyan’s neck began to puff and clot immediately. Trevelyan groaned and fell. Dorian caught him before he hit the floor, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a child.

The darkness was no longer darkness. There was light and life all around. Mosses, roaches, lichens, silverfish. The world was bursting with life and color. Dorian felt his mind open as he gazed in what felt a thousand directions, forward and backwards through time and space. He was strong, now. He was changed. Power surged into him, and he realized that he could tear this house apart brick by brick if he wanted to.

Not that he would. This was his house, after all—the house that he shared with his husband.

He glided up the stairs with Trevelyan’s body in his arms. A servant woman dropped a plate at the sight of him and screamed. Ignoring her, he swept down the hall to the master bedroom and closed the door behind him.

The sheets were not pulled down. Dorian felt a pang as he realized Trevelyan must have been sleeping in his study these past weeks. He had not given himself a moment of rest in all that time, not when Dorian needed his help.

Gently, Dorian lay Trevelyan down on the bed. He would have to order the servants to bring him sustenance. Protein, sugar, something to get his blood back up.

Dorian brushed a clawed finger—curious, when had that happened?—down the side of Trevelyan’s puffy, enflamed neck.

“Dorian?” whispered Trevelyan.

“Shhh.” Dorain leaned down and kissed his brow. It left a bloody smudge on his skin. “I’m here. Nothing can harm you.”

There was fear in Trevelyan’s eyes. That was understandable. After all, Dorian would hunger again. There would always be a need for him to feed.

And Trevelyan would always be there for him. Dorian could feel his blood mingling inside him with his own, and knew this was a kind of marriage, too.

“You have me,” whispered Dorian, stroking the side of Trevelyan’s throat. “And you always will.”


	7. Dog Sitter (Fenris/Male Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is not good with animals.

 

“I’ll only be gone for a few days,” said Hawke.

“Understood,” said Fenris.

“I left raw venison down in the cellar for his dinner. Leave him out fresh water every day. He can walk around High Town on his own, but you need to let him in when he comes home at night.”

“Fine,” said Fenris.

“I really appreciate that you're doing this for me.” Hawke was dressed in his travel cloak, his bag thrown over his shoulder. Barnabas the mabari lay on the rug in front of the fireplace, panting from the warmth of Fenris’s bedroom. “I know you’re not really a dog person, but you’re also the least busy of anyone I know, and Barnabas is used to you—”

“You will miss your caravan,” said Fenris.

“Right.” Hawke kissed him. “I’ll bring you back some wine from Val Chevin.” He then stooped down and took the mabari’s face in his hands. “And I’ll miss you so much.” Hawke wrinkled his ears. “I’ll miss you every night and every morning and every minute. My sweet boy, my big brave mister.” Hawke pulled the dog against his chest and thumped his belly. “Look at his sweet puppy with his little ears and his big paws. The best Barney in the whole world, yes you are, yes you are.”

Fenris endured the farewell for another three minutes before clearing his throat. Hawke let go of the dog. “Take good care of him for me.”

“Off with you.”

“All right, all right," said Hawke.

When the front door had slammed behind him, Fenris turned to his charge. Barnabas’s tail wagged.

“You will do as you are told, is that clear?” said Fenris.

Barnabas tilted his head.

“If you roll in the mud, you will be soaped and scoured. The furniture is not for you to sit on. You may have been treated as a prince at home, but here you are a dog, understand?”

Barnabas whimpered slightly.

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris did what was expected of him. He let the mabari out into the garden at dawn to piss, and then fed him a pound of raw venison. Afterward, the mabari scratched at the front door, wanting to be let out. Fenris kept him inside. No matter how comfortable Hawke was in letting Barnabas roam the neighborhood, Fenris had no interest in hunting the dog down if he decided to run away.

“There are dogs who live their entire lives inside kennels, never once setting foot outside,” said Fenris. “You can suffer three days indoors.”

Barnabas growled softly and stared up at the door.

“The mansion is yours to explore,” said Fenris, polishing his armor. “Take out your fury on rats if you must.”

Barnabas huffed and disappeared down a hall, apparently to do just that.

Later that afternoon, Fenris took a book into the garden and read on the divan he and Hawke had dragged under the juniper tree. Barnabas prowled around the tall grass and weeds, sniffing at the rubble. He came running up to Fenris with a stick.

“What?” said Fenris. “You are more than capable of playing on your own.”

Barnabas set the stick down on the end of the divan and barked.

Fenris picked up the stick and chucked it into the weeds. Barnbas chased it and brought it back, his tail wagging.

“One is all you get,” said Fenris. The mabari whined. “Your master has spoiled you, but you will get none of it from me.”

After pouting around the garden for a few minutes, the dog set the stick down and began gnawing on his rump.

"Stop that,” said Fenris, not looking up from his book. The dog did, though sullenly.

 

* * *

 

The problem came on the second day. Fenris woke to the sound of the mabari whining. The dog was dragging his behind on the rug, working it into the stiff threads.

“What are you—!” Fenris yanked the dog up by his scruff. There were streaks of foul-smelling grey sludge on the rug. “Out!”

The mabari whimpered in the garden while Fenris got down on hands and knees and scrubbed the stains. The grey liquid made his eyes water. When he went outside to throw the rags in the trash heap, he found Barnabas licking his rump. It looked raw and enflamed.

Clearly, the dog was unwell. Hawke would know immediately what was wrong, but Hawke was not here, and Fenris had never had his talent for understanding animals. He had always assumed that the best way to deal with dogs was with a firm hand, and now when something had happened that could not be fixed with a firm hand, he had no idea how to deal with it.

“What ails you?” he asked. “Your stomach?”

The mabari blinked up at him with wet black eyes.

“Whatever it is will likely pass. Your master will return soon. You are not to lick yourself in the meantime, understand?”

The mabari clawed at the broken tiles of the patio. He began to drag his rump across the tiles, leaving more greasy grey stains.

“Maybe it is worms,” wondered Fenris, aloud. He remembered a dog in Danarius’s kennels was once infected with parasites that made him squirm. "Or an allergic reaction..."

There was knock at the front door. Fenris grabbed his sword and loped down into the foyer. Opening the door a crack, he peered out to find Isabela, Varric, and Sebastian loitering on his stoop.

“Hey!” Varric held up a basket covered with a napkin. “It’s your turn to host Wicked Grace tonight, remember?”

Fenris cursed. He had forgotten. “Come in,” he said, and pulled the door open.

Isabela curled her nose as she stepped inside. “Did something piss in here?”

“Hawke’s mabari, most likely,” said Fenris. “He is staying with me until Hawke returns from his trip.”

They made their way up to the bedroom. The mabari had come back inside and was dragging his arse again on the rug.

“No!” Fenris clapped his hand. “I told you no.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Varric set the basket down on the table.

“He has been dragging his backside since this morning,” said Fenris. “He licks himself as if it bothers him.”

Sebastian studied the grey stains on the rug. “Smells like his glands need to be expressed.

“His….what?” said Fenris.

“His anal glands,” said Sebastian. “Dogs have little sacs around their bottom that fill up sometimes and need to be squeezed out. Otherwise they stink and get uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know," said Sebastian. "The Maker moves in mysterious ways.”

“And how are these glands….expressed?” said Fenris.

“By pinching the sacs and forcing the fluid to come out the dog’s anus,” said Sebastian. “It’s not pleasant, but it would stop him from dragging himself like that.”

“Disgusting." Varric sat down at the table and was taking out blocks of hard cheese and warm bread. “When did you say Hawke was getting back?”

“Tomorrow,” said Fenris.

“Wait for him to come back and do it,” said Isabela, taking out a knife and spreading a pap of salted butter on a heel of bread. “He’s probably done it loads of times.”

Fenris stared down at the mabari. Barnabas whimpered miserably, his haunches raw red and flecked with blood. It would be the simplest thing to wait for Hawke to be arrive tomorrow and take care of it. He could put the dog out in the garden with stern instructions not to lick himself. But being stern with the dog had not prevented his suffering- it had only made Fenris a poor caretaker.

“Do you know how to do it?” he asked Sebastian.

Sebastian gave him a serene smile. “I will supervise. Go wash your hands and put a sheet down. Preferably one you’re not attached to.”

 

* * *

 

Two _horrifying_ hours later, Fenris threw a stinking rag covered in the foulest, most evil smelling shit he’d ever smelled in the fire, while Barnabas panted on his side and Sebastian wiped his backside down with a wet cloth.

“I can’t believe you stuck your finger in Hawke’s dog’s asshole,” said Varric.

“That’s real love,” said Isabela. “Real, brown, stinky love.”

Barnabas rocked up and licked Fenris’s face. Fenris pushed him away, but scratched his ears to make up for it. “I apologize. That could not have been pleasant for you, either.”

“Give him a belly rub,” said Isabela, who was on her second bottle of wine.

Fenris sighed and did.

 

* * *

 

Fenris was trimming the mabari’s claws when Hawke came bounding in.

“You’ll never guess the vintage I got.” Hawke halted in the doorway. “Hello. Aren’t you two cozy?”

“We get on.” Fenris set the clippers aside and patted the mabari’s side. “Did you know your dog had clogged anal glands?”

“Uck.” Hawke set down his bag. “They get like that. Do they stink terribly?”

“No, I took care of them.”

“Truly?”

“You seem surprised. You did leave your dog in my care.”

“I assumed he’d take care of himself, mostly.” Hawke sat down on the rug with him and rubbed Barnabas’s neck. The mabari’s short tail wagged. “I’m happy, though. I like seeing my boys together.”

"Next time, warn me in advance about his health troubles. It will spare us both pain."

“Who knew you'd be so eager to take him on again."

Fenris scratched the mabari's belly until his leg began to kick. "I'd consider it."


	8. Sunbathing (Male Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds a secret corner of Skyhold.

Dorian spread his blanket out on the garden path and began to take his clothes off. The sun was hot in a cloudless sky and prickled on his skin. As soon as he was naked, he took a bottle of oil from his bag, squirted a dollop into his palm, and rubbed himself all over.

The rooftop garden was a secret spot in Skyhold. It was a little square of greenery boxed in by four castle walls, completely inaccessible save for a single door. Dorian had discovered it by accident while exploring the castle. Someone clearly took care of the garden—there were watered tomato plants, as well as parsley, elfroot, and healing herbs—but as he had never seen anyone else, he had begun to think of the garden as his own.

It was a convenient spot for sunbathing. No one could find him up here, unless they came through the door, and seeing as no one ever had, he felt safe lying in the sun for hours at a time.

Dorian rubbed the oil over his chest. His skin glistened like beaten bronze. He rubbed his hands down between the crease of his buttocks, then wiped them dry on his blanket. Lying down, he draped his smallclothes across his backside, just in case the mysterious gardener decided to appear, pulled out a book from his bag and opened it to his bookmark.

Truly, this was heaven. After almost a year in the wintery south, this was as close as Dorian had come to feeling like he was back home. Between the baking heat of the sun and the walls that blocked the freezing wind, he could almost pretend he was on the beaches of Qarinas, below the Pavus family estate. Whenever he grew tired of the superstitious, backward courtiers of Skyhold, he could hide here, in his little blessed square of privacy and sun.

A crow cawed overhead. It circled down and settled on a wall. A moment later, two more crows winged down and landed beside it.

Dorian scowled. The crows were inescapable in Skyhold. Everywhere you went, men and women screamed as crows divebombed at their heads. They tormented the castle dogs, invaded every open window, and no food was safe from their clever little beaks. It was Trevelyan's fault. The Inquisitor had an unnatural affection for the birds, and openly encouraged massive murders of them to roost in the unused towers at the edge of the castle grounds. The smallfolk whispered that the birds were the Inquisitor’s dark children, bringing him whispers and secrets from all across Thedas. The rumor was easy enough to laugh about most days, until a mass of crows took flight from one of the towers, and their dark wings blotted out the sky.

Dorian despised them. They shat everywhere, stole anything shiny they could get their claws on, and took up far too much of Trevelyan’s attention for his liking. He picked up a pebble and chucked it a them. Two of the crows lifted off and flew away, but the third merely blinked at him.

“You had better not shit on my book like last time, or you’ll get a lightning bolt up your tailfeathers,” said Dorian. “Do you hear me?”  

The crow cocked its head.

“That’s right,” said Dorian. “Watch yourself.”

He went back to reading. The book was about the magic of chasind barbarians, who supposedly still retained the lost arts of death-speech, wind crafting, and shapeshifting. After a few minutes, his eyelids began to droop. He lay his head down on his book.

Something tugged at the smallclothes on his buttocks. He spun around, and found the crow pecking at the cloth with its beak.

“Disgusting thing, get away.” He waved a hand at it, and the crow hopped back. He waited for it to fly off, but it sat there, unafraid and insolent.

“Did you know that most of the world makes little birdies like you into pies? Maybe I’ll cook you with a fireball and take your charred corpse down to the kitchens. How would you like that?”

The crow puffed up. Its feathers were oily, with that distinctive scent of _bird_ that made Dorian want to vomit. It was a smell Trevelyan carried in his clothes, from where he let the crows use him as a tree branch, even as they shat on his back. Trevelyan merely scratched them under the chin when they did that, as if they were naughty children instead of mite-ridden vermin.

“Away! Shoo!” Dorian lit his fingers and waved a fiery hand at the bird. This time it did flap away, though only as far as the nearest tomato plant. It sat on the trellis, watching him.

Dorian lay his head back down on his book. The sun made his head muzzy. It was not long before he fell into a doze.

He floated in a half-dream where Trevelyan announced that he had ordered hundreds of cats to be brought to Skyhold. They prowled the grounds with their tails up, dead crows in their mouths. Even as he enjoyed the dream, Dorian knew it to be false. Trevelyan despised cats, and had ordered all of them removed from Skyhold the day he became Inquisitor. Once, when a visiting lady had arrived with her beloved tomcat in tow, Trevelyan had carried it back out of Skyhold by the scruff, and then kicked it over the threshold. It had taken weeks of apologies for Josephine to smooth that one over.

The smallclothes slid off his backside. Dorian spun, fire in his palm already. The crow was already flapping back to the wall. It sat there, peering down at him, all innocence.

“You probably have a nest of stolen trinkets, don’t you?” Dorian was tempted to send a little jolt of electricity at the bird, but no doubt it would go crying back to Trevelyan, who would, in that uncanny way of his, figure out exactly who had done it. “Try it again, and I’ll…do something you won’t like.”

The crow cawed.

Dorian rearranged the smallclothes and set his head back down, this time ready. When the flapping did come, he tensed, but instead of flying down at him, the wingbeats faded away, back into the sky.

Finally. The sun was hot on Dorian's back, and the heat seeped down into his bones. His thoughts grew slurry and indistinct. He drifted down into a dream in which he was an sleek black cat curled up in Trevelyan's lap. Dorian purred contently, flexing his claws in pleasure as a gentle tap-tap-tap reached his ears. It was the sound of crows smashing into the bedroom windows. It was such a sweet dream, that Dorian struggled to stay with it even as he realized he needed to turn over lest he get sunburned. 

He heard the wingbeats a second before it happened. Something sharp grazed his left arsecheek, and his smallclothes were ripped away from him. He scrambled to his feet, just in time to see the crow flapping away with his smallclothes in its beak.

“Oh, you!” His fists shook. He shot a lightning bolt after it and the crow dodged it easily. “Flea-ridden, vile, musty little cretin!” He threw a flash of ice that wilted in the heat. “Get down here so I can wring your neck!”

To Dorian’s amazement, the crow wheeled around. It dove and landed in front of him. Then it was engulfed in white light, and its shape grew and grew until it was the height of a man, then the shape of a man, then just a man.

Dorian gaped. Trevelyan stood before him, Dorian's smallclothes dangling from one finger. “You’ll wring my neck, will you? Is that any way to talk to your Inquisitor?”

 “I—how…..” Dorian could not form the words. Trevelyan stood there with his bald head and his mocking smile, his thick black brows angled down to make his gaze as menacing as possible. He was dressed in a black tunic with tight black trousers with a pair of pointed black boots. “You’re a shapeshifter.”

“I am.”

“That’s not possible.”

Trevelyan cocked his head.

“Do you realize what a breakthrough this is? Shapeshifting is a lost school of magic. This is astronomical. The magical discovery of the age!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” Trevelyan spun Dorian’s smallclothes around his finger. “It’s a rare art, but hardly unheard of in certain parts of the world. And I’m not interested in sharing it.”

“You must be joking. Think of the treatises!”

“It’s a secret that has saved my life more times than I can count. It would hardly be effective if everyone knew about it.”

“But you showed it to me!”

“You were sunbathing naked in my garden,” said Trevelyan. His smirk was truly insufferable. “What else was I supposed to do?”

Dorian touched his head. It was pounding from the sun. “All the crows in Skyhold, they are your spies.”

“They are my friends first, but yes, they bring me useful information.”

Dorian thought of all those thousands of eyes watching everyone and everything around Skyhold and felt a chill.

“You can talk to them. You can be one of them.”

“I can. And you’re going to keep quiet about it, understood?” Trevelyan placed the finger with the smallclothes draped over it on Dorian’s lips. Dorian snatched them away.

“You bloody pervert,” he said.

“I am that,” said Trevelyan, closing the distance. “And you are sunburned.”

Now that he was on his feet, Dorian felt himself swooning. His skin no longer felt so good. A few crows had landed on the walls and were watching them now. Dorian thought of all the times he had thrown things at the birds, chased them off, even cast spells at them. The thought that one of them might have been Trevelyan made him sick.

“This isn’t fair,” said Dorian. “How am I supposed to tell which one is you, now?”

“You won’t be able to,” said Trevelyan. “Which is why you’re going to be nicer to them.”

Dorian could not see himself ever loving the blasted things, but he supposed now, out of necessity, he would need to be more cognizant of who and what each crow might be.

“This explains so much about you,” said Dorian.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Trevelyan gave a sharky grin and slid his arms around Dorian’s waist, pulling him close. 

Dorian sighed, wincing at the place where Trevelyan’s fingertips touched his scorched flesh. Crows flapped down and landed on the tomato wires, the bean poles, and the scarecrow that Dorain realized now was entirely ironic. They all peered at him, as if waiting for a show.

“This is so troubling,” said Dorian, right as Trevelyan kissed him. They ended up back on the blanket, with Trevelyan happily between Dorian’s legs. 

“You’ve been waiting to spring this on me in the most obnoxious fashion possible for a long time, haven’t you?” asked Dorian.

“Hm,” said Trevelyan. “I know you can keep a secret.”

“The secret that you’re a rat with wings who peeps at people? No, amatus, I won’t tell.” Dorian glared at the birds that were still watching. “Though I will judge you for it.”


	9. Vigil (Cullen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen suffers from lyrium withdrawal.

“Are you well, Commander?”

Cullen startled to attention. He had been pretending to listen to the war council debriefings, and now his colleagues were staring at him: Josephine with concern, Leliana with suspicion. Inquisitor Trevelyan’s cold expression could have meant anything, which was to say it was the same mask it always was.

“I’m fine, yes.” Cullen wiped his brow. His legs were trembling. The room was both too hot and too cold. He had spent all morning hoping that the symptoms he felt were those of an oncoming summer chill, but now he knew better.

“Maybe you should sit down,” said Josephine.

“No.” The word came out hard. “No thank you, Ambassador Montilyet. The last thing I need right now is to be coddled.”

“Sitting in a chair would hardly count as coddling,” said Leliana.

Cullen ground his teeth. He picked a piece of paper up off the desk and tried to concentrate. The scrutiny of the two women never failed to rankle him. No matter how sincere their concern, he could feel them searching him for weakness, forming contingencies in their minds in the event that he failed in his duties. It made him want to pace, or worse, run away.

Worst of all was the scrutiny of the Inquisitor, whose eyes Cullen could barely meet on the best of days.

“Cullen,” said Trevelyan.

“ _Yes_?” said Cullen.

“We were asking if you had a recommendation for the command post in the Emerald Graves,” said Trevelyan.

“Yes.” The words on the page slipped between his mind’s fingers like water. “Grandin, I think will suffice.”

“Lieutenant Grandin from the Frostbacks?” asked Trevelyan.

“No.” Cullen rubbed his eyes. “No, of course not. I meant Graccus. His name escaped me.”

“Of course,” said Trevelyan.

They were all still staring at him. These people who were supposed to be his friends were now all sizing him up, picking him apart with their eyes. How long until his name came up as someone in need of replacement at a war table meeting?

“Cullen.” Trevelyan came around the table. He put a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. Trevelyan was a thin man, but his limbs were corded muscle. The grip on Cullen’s shoulder was firm. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, Maker damn you, I’m quite all right.” Cullen wrenched away from him. “Will you leave me be so we can finish this blasted meeting so I can get back to my duties?”

Trevelyan’s brow raised. The outburst was ill-done. Trevelyan was a fair man under his harshness, a healer besides, and was only looking out for him.

But Cullen could not bear the questions now. He wanted this meeting to be over. Just a little longer, and he could lock himself in his tower and ride out the withdrawal the same as he always had. No one need see his shame.

“Now,” he said, and forced himself to concentrate on the piece of parchment in his hand. “About the Emerald Graves…”

 

* * *

 

Cullen went straight to his tower after the meeting. By then, his legs were so weak he could barely make it up the stairs. His fingers fumbled with the latch and he all but crawled inside.

Maker.

Waves of nausea washed over him. He got down on hands and knees. Papers spilled from his arms. He put his hands over his head, his body trembling all over.

Every time, he prayed it would not be as bad as the last time.

Every time, it was worse.

He was burning up. He was freezing. He tore off his fur mantle and flung it on the floor. His fingers fumbled on the catches of his breastplate. His shirt and boots came next, until he was just in his breeches and undershirt. He wanted a hot bath. He wanted a cold compress. His bed was at the top of the ladder, and there was no way he could climb up to crawl under the blankets.

The ache that had begun in his bones began to cut into his muscles. His back clenched. His stomach heaved. He collapsed on his side and curled up on his mantle, wishing anything that it was morning and the hours of agony to come were a fading memory.

“No, please no.” He sounded like a little boy. It amazed him, as pain stabbed behind his eye and split deep into his skull, how quickly the withdrawals reduced him. No flesh wound or scar from battle had ever made him feel so alone.

He had deprived his body of lyrium, and it would spent the rest of the night punishing him for it.

“Please, someone.” He wanted his mother. He wanted his sister. He wanted anything but to be alone with this. He saw the pain in his mind’s eye as a creeping vein of raw red, spreading and splitting him as it searched down into his core. It burned behind his eyes. It prickled under his nails. It raked under his scalp and filled his lungs with bad air. His neck went rigid with pain that flared into his jaw.

He whimpered. It had been all of twenty minutes, and there were hours still to go.

A knock came at his door. “Cullen?”

The Inquisitor. “Leave me.” Cullen tried to raise his voice, and all that came out was a whimper. “Leave me be.”

Magic flared around the lock. The bar glowed green and lifted of its own accord. Trevelyan opened the door and froze.

“Go away," said Cullen.

Trevelyan shut the door behind him. He knelt down, his face taking on the stern calm of a healer. “When did the symptoms start?”

“This morning,” said Cullen. “When it starts early, it usually lasts until dawn.”

“Have you taken any lyrium?”

Cullen laughed. If he had taken lyrium, he would not be here. All it would take was a single draught to call off this terrible evisceration of the body.

“Tell me what you need,” said Trevelyan.

“It’ll pass,” said Cullen. “It’ll be bad, but it’ll pass. Please, leave me.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Cullen bit back a cry as a contraction rose inside him. It grew louder and louder, until he was screaming under his breath. When it receded, he sagged with relief, the momentary lapse in pain nearly narcotic.

He did not want Trevelyan to see him like this. He did not need the Inquisitor to see how weak his commander had become.

But didn’t want to be alone. The terror of facing the agony in this tower was too much. He might kill himself if it grew too hideous. There were knives in his desk drawers. There were high walls outside the door.

Burning with shame, he curled his body until his face was pressed against Trevelyan’s knee.

“Stay,” he said. “Please.”

 

* * *

 

Trevelyan performed a spell that soundproofed the room. Then he dipped a rag in the basin of water and spread it across the back of Cullen’s neck. The Inquisitor sat beside him on the floor as requested and allowed Cullen to dig his nails into his flesh.

As loathe as Cullen was to admit it, having a person nearby helped distract him. He would squeeze Trevelyan’s hand, and in doing so was better able to bite back his screams.

Which was good, because the pain was getting worse.

“I can’t ask you to stay here all night,” said Cullen.

“Then don’t,” said Trevelyan. “I’m not leaving.”

Cullen was ashamed, but secretly relieved. “I didn’t want you to see me this way.”

“You’re hardly the first man I’ve seen in this state.”

“As a healer?”

“Yes,” said Trevelyan, though there was a small hesitation before he said it.

Cullen nodded, then buried his face in Trevelyan’s knee as a crest of pain arched his back. His chest felt as if there was a weight crushing down on it.

“As a healer,” said Cullen, hating himself for asking, “is there anything you can do?”

“Any tincture I could give you at this point would do more harm than good. I’m sorry.”

“Me too. Can you at least get me water?”

Trevelyan rose and went to the basin. He waved a hand, and the water began to boil.

Cullen stiffened at the magic as he would at a twig snapping in a forest. The lap of Trevelyan’s magic in the air, the invisible glisten of it, made his mouth run dry. The urge to silence it into oblivion drew on his muscles like a draw sucking on an empty glass—the memory of the lyrium raw inside him.

“You must find some satisfaction in this,” whispered Cullen.

Trevelyan took a tin cup from a shelf and filled it with bubbling water. That he did not answer told Cullen that he understood exactly what he meant.

It wasn’t right for Cullen to needle him this way. Trevelyan had trusted Cullen when he had a thousand reasons not to, and given him more credit than he deserved.

But the pain made him reckless. All the doors of propriety were falling off their hinges. All the unspoken tension that had been between them this past year was all around them, laid bare, and Cullen found he didn’t care enough to ignore it.

“Seeing a Templar reduced to this state….” Cullen licked his lips. “You must find it gratifying for me to lose my abilities.”

Trevelyan waved a hand over the cup, and an icy breeze cooled it. He brought it back and lifted it to Cullen’s lips. Cullen drank from it, the water running down his chin.

“I'll be a normal man, given time,” said Cullen, wincing. “No more smites, no more silences. You’ll never have to fear me again.”

“What makes you think I’ve ever been afraid of you?” asked Trevelyan.

Trevelyan’s face was lined and weathered. His shaved head was covered in scars, and his left ear was a tattered ruin. He was no soft apprentice, but an apostate—as different from a Circle mage as a dog from a wolf. 

"My mistake," said Cullen. 

 

* * *

 

The next few hours were hell. Cullen tore his shirt off and eventually removed his breeches. He screamed, and wailed, and begged. He whimpered when the pain receded and bit his lip bloody when it came roaring back. Trevelyan gripped his hand through it all and occasionally refilled the water glass. Cullen was so grateful for the contact that he didn’t even protest when Trevelyan began gently massaging his back.

At around midnight, there was a lull. Cullen recognized it as the onset of exhaustion. The pain would return in full force within the hour, but for now there was a window of reprieve.

“I’ve got to shit.” He was past shame at this point. His muscles had been contracting so hard that his bowels were burning. 

“Where’s the chamber pot?” asked Trevelyan.

“Under the bed. Hurry.”

Trevelyan disappeared up the ladder. Cullen listened to his slow ascent and panted. He couldn’t hold it. Trevelyan got to the top of the ladder. Little thread of dust sifted down under his tread as he crossed to the bed. Too slow, too damn slow.

Cullen skinned off his smallclothes. He didn’t care. He squatted on trembling knees and moaned. Burning mess trickled down the backs of his thighs. It just kept coming, until he collapsed.

Trevelyan returned slowly down the ladder with the brass chamberpot under one arm. He paused on the last rungs at the sight of the mess.

“I’m sorry,” said Cullen.

“Don’t move,” said Trevelyan.

Cullen buried his face in his hands. It was beyond bearing for the Inquisitor to see him like this. He felt Trevelyan heat the water basin again.

“Please don’t,” whispered Cullen. “I’ll do it.”

Trevelyan returned with a hot rag and knelt down beside him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Cullen shakily took the rag from him and began to wash his legs and buttocks. He hissed when the rag touched raw flesh, but kept wiping himself.

“Here,” said Trevelyan, and gave him a fresh rag. The soiled one was thrown in the chamberpot. “Is it always this bad?”

“No." Cullen was so tired. He wanted to fall into asleep, but he knew the worst was yet to come. Dawn was hours off, and no spell had ever lasted less than a night.

Trevelyan wiped down the mess on the floorboards and got rid of the dirty rags. Cullen listened to him walk around the floorboards and gave a soft laugh.

“How many Templars has the Inquisition killed, do you think?" asked Cullen. "How many has the _mage_ Inquisition hunted down and put to the knife?”

Trevelyan’s foosteps paused. Cullen realized he was being vicious, but he didn’t care. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to hurt this stoic, silent mage who could treat him with friendship at one moment and open contempt the next. This man who was such a contradiction, and left Cullen feeling haunted and confused.

“You’re not a Templar anymore, Cullen.”

“In title, I’m not, but in everything else? The armor doesn’t shed so easily. The Order clings to your flesh like a sickness. Like this.”

The Inquisitor stood over him, his face a mask, one eyebrow raised in an expression that could have been contemptuous or amused. It was one thing Cullen hated about him. Trevelyan was always so confident, so devious, so smug.

No matter how many times Cullen had tried to defend the Templar Order, Trevelyan had cut his clumsy words to pieces. Trevelyan, this backwoods apostate who should have been hanged years ago, always made the former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall seem like a blithering fool.

“You wanted to see this,” said Cullen. “That’s why you’re here tonight.”

Trevelyan said nothing to that.

“You’re observing lyrium withdrawal for your own personal notes. To understand how better to cripple us. It’s what you do when you capture enemy Templars. You lock them up, take away their lyrium, and let them suffer.”’

“Do you want to get off the floor?” asked Trevelyan.

Cullen shook his head. Trevelyan set the chamberpot down beside him and took a seat across the room in a chair. Cullen turned his head to glare at him, the mage sitting with his arms folded, one boot kicked up on his knee.

“I know who you are,” said Cullen. “I’m no fool.”

“And who am I?” asked Trevelyan.

“A spy for the Mage Collective. You’ve never said it, but everyone knows it. You’ve worked with them for years. You still work for them.”

“Do you even know what the Mage Collective is?”

“I was a Templar, of course I know.”

“Do you?”

Cullen hated that Trevelyan was right. The truth was that he found the Mage Collective difficult to understand. They were a shadow fraternity of mages that operated across southern Thedas. They operated in open defiance of the Chantry, with the vague goal of working toward the betterment of mage kind. They were the backbone of the Mage Underground, and the shadow hand behind the Mage Rebellion. They operated alongside but separate from the Circle mages, with a subtle contempt for their Chantry-controlled breathren that was matched only by their obsession with freeing them.

The Seekers of Truth said that the Mage Collective was barely a nuisance, and the Templar Order laughed at the little rebels and their attempts to bring down the Circle. But Cullen was never fooled. He tasted the unease when they were mentioned. There were too many disappearances linked to the Collective’s name. Too many Templars murdered, too many mages disappeared from towers, too many Tranquil with watchful, intelligent eyes.

Cullen had never brought it up to Trevelyan's face, but here, now naked on his knees, there was nothing to keep him in silence.

“What did you do for them?" asked Cullen.

“A lot of things,” said Trevelyan. 

“How did they recruit you?”

Trevelyan didn’t answer.

“You are their agent,” said Cullen.

“Yes.”

“Are you theirs before you are the Inquisition’s?”

“I work in the interest of the Collective,” said Trevelyan. “But I am the Inquisitor first. You should know that by now.”

“I should know that by now,” said Cullen, mockingly. “How can anyone know anything about you, with your strange, guarded ways? You’re like a ghost. A hateful, spiteful ghost who judges everyone.”

Cullen curled his fists. The pain was winding up again. The second wind was over, and the storm was gathering speed.

“What was your role in the Collective before the Inquisition?” asked Cullen.

“Why do you want to know this, Cullen?”

“Just tell me.”

“When I was younger, I was part of the Underground. I helped mages escape the Circle.”

“How many?”

“Fewer than a hundred.”

Cullen laughed. A few years ago, that number would have given him a conniption. “What did you do for them after?”

“I hunted Templars.”

Cullen felt dizzy. "Why?"

"Because it needed to be done."

"Because of what the Templars did to you?" 

Trevelyan's eyes were like flint. "Not just me." 

“So you watched us, took notes on us, then hunted us down? Exacted justice on us under no authority but your own?"”

“More or less.”

Cullen thought of all the knights he had known who had disappeared across the years. Mysterious deaths no one could account for. A throat slit in a marketplace. A body hanged from a tree on a forest road. Sometimes entire entourages of Templars simply vanished into thin air—attributed always to bandits.

“It's the same thing you're doing now,” said Cullen. "You're trying to wipe out the Order."

"Yes."

"All the Templars who ever hurt a mage....all the ones who looked the other way and let terrible things happen....you want them all dead?" 

"Yes." 

"And what gives you the right? Why do you think you get to decide?"

"The last time I checked, you people gave me the sword." 

The pain was building higher and higher, the contractions coming hard and fast. Cullen curled up tight on the floorboards. He gritted hit teeth. "Tell me..." 

“Cullen?” The floorboards creaked as Trevelyan stood.

“What about...” said Cullen. "What about me?" 

Trevelyan stood over him. The Inquisitor’s scarred face burned down at him like a dark sun.

“What about you?” he said.

 

* * *

 

The next two hours were a blur of weeping. Cullen ground his teeth. He shat himself again and this time could not clean himself up. He cursed and told Trevelyan to go to hell. He begged and begged and begged for an end, and the end never came.

His body shrieked for the lyrium, and no drop of it was to be found.

“Why don't you kill me?” Cullen sobbed into someone’s chest. He was in the shaft of light, watching his friends be torn to pieces. He was in the Gallows, watching the Knight-Commander cut through screaming children. He was in his office, sneering down at a woman pleading for him not to make her Tranquil as his men dragged her away.

He was in Trevelyan’s arms, clinging to him like a child.

“Why don't you kill me?” he cried. “Why don’t you kill me?”

Trevelyan wiped the sweat from his brow. When exhaustion finally broke his body, he sagged in the mage's embrace

“You shouldn’t have to clean up after me like this,” Cullen whispered.

“Someone has to,” said Trevelyan, and lay him down gently on the floor.

 

* * *

 

As the first rays of dawn crept through the windows, Cullen lay on his side on his discarded mantle, his muscles twitching. A blanket had been thrown over him and a pillow put under his head. There was a plate of toast beside him as well as a glass of orange juice. He did not remember passing out.

Trevelyan sat in the same chair as before, writing something in a journal. He smiled as Cullen stirred. “You’re awake.”

“Yes.” Cullen couldn’t move. His entire body was drained. It was dawn, and that meant he would need to attend his duties soon. “I need to get dressed.”

“You have the day off.”

“But—”

“I’m giving you an order,” said Trevelyan. “And you’re in no position to argue.”

Cullen lay his head back down, subdued. It was true. Even if he wanted to serve, his body was in no fit state.

“That,” he said, “was the worst it’s ever been.”

“Maybe that means it's all downhill from here,” said Trevelyan.

“As if I would be so lucky.”

In the early light of dawn, he felt raw, scrubbed clean. The pain of the night before had faded to a hazy memory.

The conversation with Trevelyan was still crystal clear.

“Inquisitor,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I need to ask you something.”

Trevelyan set his journal aside. “I’m listening.”

“Why have you never taken action against me? My crimes are well-known, and yet you’ve never put me on trial, never ordered my death. You’ve never once raised a hand against me. Why? I don’t understand. I need to understand.”

Cullen shakily sat up. He was naked, covered in sweat, a former Templar disgraced before the most powerful mage in the south. Trevelyan sat with his hands folded in his lap, that same mask on his face as ever.

“You’re the Commander of the Inquisition,” said Trevelyan. “You’re not a Templar anymore.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

"You and Leliana and Josephine could replace me at anytime. It's not as if you don't have an excuse." 

"That won't happen." 

Cullen stared down at his hands, considering. “You’ve been a friend to me. I’m not sure I deserve that.”

“Probably not,” said Trevelyan. The Inquisitor sounded tired now. “But it is what it is.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t despise me.”

"In an ideal world, every single Templar and Seeker and Chantry official would stand trail for what they did to mages. They would all be hanged for their crimes. In an ideal world, I would never stop making them pay for what they've done, what they continue to do, and what mundanes will let them get away with.”

Cullen raised his head slowly. “But—?”

“But you are not a Templar anymore.”

The Inquisitor stood and collected his journal. He tapped Cullen on the head with it as he passed.

“Get some sleep, Commander. Tomorrow, you return to your post.”

“Thank you, Your Worship.”

Cullen glanced back to watch the Inquisitor close the door behind him. There were many things in this world he didn’t deserve. The Herald, he decided, was one of them.

 


	10. Golden - Part One (Dorian Pavus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hollywood, 1939.

The whole engagement debacle might have been avoided if he hadn't won the Oscar.

 _Prince of the Sun_ had not been, in Dorian’s estimation, a good film. It was a pirate picture, the sort made for children to watch in dank film houses with damp seats and slippery, sticky floors. Dorian spent three interminable weeks on a water set with a bandana around his head, crowing a laugh that went AH. AH. AH. before slashing a dozen extras apart with a rubber sword. He had acted across from some brainless starlet whose fame had already faded, crushing her half-bared breasts to his bronzed chest before smashing their lips together in what he was assured was a sizzling kiss.

It was trash. Utter and complete drivel.

It was, of course, a massive success.

 _Prince of the Sun_ was the second highest grossing film of 1939, and buzz around it was positive. His father immediately leashed the publicity monster and began pushing for a nomination. Bribes were made, galas were thrown, and the nomination was easily bought.

Dorian got word of it when his agent waltzed into Dorian’s master bedroom and announced that he was on track to become an Academy Award-winning actor. That there were three naked men in Dorian’s bed instead of just one did not phase him in the least. 

The night of the awards had been fun. Dorian won against Gable—a better actor in a better film—in what he decided was an utter crime. Dorian no doubt made an ass out of himself during his acceptance speech, but staring down at the little gold statue, he felt something that was close to pride. No matter how terribly he regarded his own work, or how hollow the nomination had been, the recognition was real. It almost made him believe that something he did had mattered.

His father called him into his office the next day.

 

* * *

 

Halward Pavus was a man of vision: visions of films, of money, of stars. He sat behind his acreage of black walnut desk in the executive suite at Peacock Studios and told Dorian, in no uncertain terms, that within the next year he would need to be married.

It was the next logical step in his career. Dorian was no longer a young Casanova carousing about Hollywood—he was thirty years old, had just won an important award, and it was time to transition him to more mature, serious fare.

“Your image must become one of a man, not a boy. No more of these disgusting rumors,” said his father, waving his thick, be-ringed hand through cigar smoke. “Put them to bed. You will need to start dating—real dates. Our catalogue of up-and-comings are full of talent whose careers will benefit most from yours.”

The floor seemed to tilt. It did not come as a complete surprise. There had been beards assigned to Dorian in the past. Always transparent, always embarrassing, and, most importantly, always temporary. Once a scandal died down, it was more profitable for the newspapers his father owned to report on a tragic breakup than on a supposedly happy relationship.

This was a different matter.

“Pick me out someone to marry?” His own voice sounded far away.

“Of course,” said his father, leaning back in his chair as if this was any other meeting. “From there, we can line up the trajectory of the marriage with certain films, certain directors. But you will have to do your part. Keep your nose clean, understood?”

Poor father. He should have remembered who his son was.

 

* * *

 

Dorian did keep his nose clean, for a time. His father signed a new film for him, not an ambitious project—it was important not to distract from his recent Oscar win—but a mountain climbing picture called _Everest!_

During pre-production, Dorian performed his duties the same way he had since he was a child. He gave interviews, attended charity functions, met with chapters of his local fan club, and sent letters of encouragement to the troops abroad. His Oscar was photographed by countless outlets, and by the time filming started on _Everest!,_ the little gold statue might as well have been glued to his hand.

He waited two weeks into production before disappearing from set.

His father’s men found him at a bar in Fairfax. The bar in question had a house rule that it would continue to serve patrons as long as they were standing, and so Dorian had slept, on his feet, at the bar for three days. The owner had only complained when Dorian threw a bottle and smashed the mirror behind the bar, and then smashed the rest of the bottles for good measure, and the windows, and a tacky ceiling lamp before passing out.

It had been a while since he’d thrown a tantrum. His father’s men retrieved him, put a gag order on the press, and took him home to his mansion in West Hollywood to dry out. They then returned him to the set of _Everest!_ coifed and ready.

A day later, Dorian disappeared again.

Most of the bars in Hollywood had been called by Peacock Studios and told to not serve Dorian under any circumstances. Dorian was amused. His father knew all his tricks. Unfortunately for him, Dorian knew all of his father’s tricks, too. No doubt there would be a squadron of Halward’s goons posted outside of all of Dorian’s favorite taverns, waiting to drag him home.

So, Dorian went to a brothel instead.

It was raided that night, naturally. He spent a few hours in a San Bernardino jail, alongside several male prostitutes who had politely been caressing him hours before. His father bailed him out, the press was gagged, and Dorian received a stern lecture over the phone.

Dorian didn’t bother going back to the set _Everest!_ the next day.

An old madness was stirring in him. It was as if a cavernous maw was opening inside him, and it was daring him to see how far he could fall before he hit rock bottom. It didn’t matter what he put in his body—only that it was as much as he could handle before it hurt and then more. He threw a suitcase in the trunk of his car and drove south to Tijuana.

 

* * *

 

Later, Dorian would admit that he recalled little of his three months in Mexico. There was a great deal of drinking and debauchery, and at one point he ended up in the hospital after being stabbed in the shoulder with a nail file. He drank until his stomach was full of peptic ulcers, and when he went to bed at night all he thought about was how much he looked forward to waking up in the morning so that he could drink again.

In all that time in Mexico, he did not once think of the engagement.

Eventually, because they were paid to, his father’s men hunted him down. They wrapped him in a white bedsheet and threw him in the back of a van and smuggled him across the border. They carried him barefoot and sweat-stained down the back corridors of Peacock Studios to his father’s office and there sat him in the studded leather chair in front of Halward Pavus.

His father stared at him for a long time without speaking.

“You wouldn't happen to have a brandy around here, would you?” asked Dorian.

“Why do you do this?” said Halward.

“You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve done a great deal.”

“Is this to get back at me?”

“I was bored pretending to be a mountain climber, father, so I went south and climbed something more fun. Do you want details?”

“Do you have any idea what this little stunt of yours has done to production? How much we’re being skewered by the bank because you broke the film’s completion bond?”

“I’m sure you can grease some palms to ease the passage. You’re very good at that.”

A clock ticked in the corner. It was an ornate piece, one Dorian had given his father for his birthday ten years ago. It sounded like it was underwater.

“If you continue this behavior,” said Halward, “you will become uninsurable. Is that what you want, Dorian?”

Dorian wanted to say, _you’re asking what I want now?_ , but he hesitated.

“Do you want the money to go away? Your house and your car and your parties? All your friends and fans and functions? Because if you think I will continue to support you while you disgrace yourself like this, you are mistaken. Where do you think you will go? Back to Mexico? To die in a gutter?”

Halward Pavus’s fists shook on his desk.

“You will return to the set of _Everest!_ You will marry in two months time the girl we picked out for you. From now until the wedding, I don’t want to see you. My people will contact your people.”

Dorian blinked. “You’ve chosen someone.”

“Yes, it will be in the papers tomorrow. Be prepared to return to work on Monday. Play along, and this will go as painlessly as possible.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I will sue you for production loss on the film.”

That was a shove in the chest. Halward Pavus had threatened his son with many things over the years, but never litigation. Dorian for the first time that day felt chilled.

“Do you understand?” asked Halward Pavus.

“Yes,” said Dorian.  

And so they left it at that. His father called a car around for him, and Dorian was chauffeured back across town, up into the hills of Melrose.

He rested his throbbing head against the window and watched the headlights from oncoming traffic wash over him, the glow of LA like moonlight in a gutter.

 

* * *

 

Dorian sat on the sofa in his living room, listening to the silence of the house. It was strange, to be alone in his own home. There were usually, at a given time, fans and rent boys and artists wandering in and out, emptying his liquor cabinet or having sex in his guest bedrooms.

Now it was like a tomb. 

He could run away, he supposed—hop a plane to New York and ride out the next few years in Brooklyn, but his father doubtlessly had already frozen his accounts. He could go out and drink himself into a stupor and destroy a local bar, but most of the bars in West Hollywood and Fairfax no longer served him. 

He could go out and find sex. But the reporters would find him, as they always did, and that would mean more meetings and interventions and possible arrests.

Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

There was no recourse for him now except to spend the weekend alone, here in his cold, empty mansion. 

And also to drink.

He took a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the ice box and poured himself a glass. The cold liquor filled his mouth and burned his sinuses.

It was a big bottle. It would last him most of the afternoon and most of the night. If he was lucky, no one would bother him while he drowned himself in self-pity.

Married.

He was getting _married_.

It felt like a steel door was slamming shut in his chest.

 _Run_. A tiny voice screamed inside him.

But where could he go? There was nowhere his father’s men and attorneys would not find him. If he ran, the leash would yank, and he’d be in a sorer spot than he already was.

Married.

He sat down on his sofa and poured another drink.

He was getting married to Livia Hirathinos.

Dorain had been unaware of his bride’s identity until that morning’s paper. Her face had been on the front page, her sultry smolder turning Dorian's stomach. 

He helped himself to another shot. Livia Hirathinos was one of Peacock Studio's young starlets. A platinum blonde waif with wide eyes and bare shoulders in a mink stole, she was as dismal at acting as she was at pretending she didn’t despise Dorian every time they worked together. Not that acting mattered, in this town. She had looks, she had charm, and given the right parts in the right pictures, she would soon to be a household name. All she needed was the publicity bump that came from a tantalizing affair—preferably with one of Hollywood’s most roguish and notorious bachelors.

Marrying Livia would boost both their careers. Halward Pavus would whisper in the right ears, and all the evil little rumors about Dorian would fade away. Within a year, Livia would be pregnant, and Dorian could start taking on more serious roles—those suitable to his newfound fatherhood and maturity.

He and Livia would haunt separate corners of the house. They would bring back lovers to annoy each other, and hire a nanny to make sure the brat stayed out of the way. Before the stepped outside, they would practice smiling and holding hands, so no one would doubt how truly in love they were with each other.  

Christmas in the Hamptons, summers in Marseilles, joint Oscar nominations within two years. The darlings of Hollywood.

In twenty, thirty years, the papers would admire how long they had stayed together.

“That’s love,” his father would say, leaning back in his armchair in his office, spreading the headline in the air with his hands. “The greatest love in Hollywood.”

Dorian’s eyes stung. He rubbed them and drank straight from the bottle.  

He could kill himself, he supposed. At least slit a wrist and bleed all over the bathroom floor before running to the neighbors and calling an ambulance. More lectures. More punishments. Trapped.

Run.

_I can’t._

Run.

_There's nowhere to go._

He slammed back the bottle.

Run.

_Where, dammit?_

He looked up at the painting above his fireplace. It was a watercolor of a highway stretching to the desert horizon. Felix had given it to him, years and years ago. 

Anywhere.


	11. Daemons (Misc) (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His Dark Materials AU.

It was strange, to meet the notorious Herald of Andraste and discover that his daemon was a butterfly. Dorian stared at the bright blue insect for a full thirty seconds in the Redcliffe Chantry before snapping back to attention.

A butterfly? Really?

It was hard to hide his amusement. The Herald stepped forward to declare the mages his sworn allies to Queen Anora of Fereldan, and Dorian caught sight of the enormous butterfly fluttering between his horns and had to stifle his own snickering.

A butterfly. Really.

He supposed it made a degree of sense. Adaar, as terrifying as he was, was a gentle soul. On the battlefield, he preferred to stand back and cast barriers on his comrades instead of rushing forward to attack. Every time an enemy would dash his way, the Qunari would pale, blasting fire and ice at the foe with all the panic of an apprentice.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met such a delicate Qunari,” said Dorian. They lay side by side in the grass outside Skyhold. Adaar’s butterfly flapped her wings and settled on a nearby flower.

“How many Qunari have you met?” asked Adaar.

“Only a few who didn't try to kill me,” said Dorian. “There was one who tried to charge me sixteen silver for a mango. The nerve of him.”

“The ones you met were probably Ataam. It makes sense that they would have big daemons. They’re raised to kill.”

“And you weren’t?” asked Dorian.

“No.” Adaar raised his hand, and his daemon fluttered to his finger. Her curled tongue flicked in and out, cleaning her delicate legs. “I was so sickly when I was a child that they thought I’d die before I was ten. I ended up reading every book my clan had about the body and healing. By the time I was older and well enough to contribute, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that I would be a healer.”

“An invaluable role in a mercenary band.”

“No one treats me that way. They call me Cry Baby Adaar and act like I run away every time trouble starts. It’s not true, you know.”

Dorian wasn't fooled. He'd seen the Herald gasp at the sight of enough kittens to know what kind of man he was. Adaar was sweet, and gentle, and a just tiny bit cowardly. It was extremely endearing, and Dorian desperately wanted to corrupt him.

“Would you run away if I told you that you blush prettily?” asked Dorian. 

Adaar’s cheeks turned crimson. His butterfly fainted right then and there.

“I um. Please, excuse me,” said Adaar, and carried his daemon to the other side of the meadow.

Dorian could not help but laugh.

 

* * *

 

Blackwall had never seen a coyote before.

He assumed Adaar’s daemon was a mangy dog, or else some kind of enormous fox. When Adaar told him that her daemon was a scavenger that fed on corpses in the badlands of northern Tevinter, he admitted his surprise.

“It hardly seems to fit you,” he said. “Begging your pardon.”

“Oh?” Adaar was a full foot taller than him, even sitting. Her daemon sat beside her on the tavern bench, gnawing on a hambone. “In what way?”

“Well.” Now that he was called upon to defend himself, Blackwall hesitated. He hadn’t considered that he had just given the lady a backhanded compliment. Her dark eyes glittered at him, fully aware of putting him on the spot.

“I don’t think of you as a scavenger,” he said. “You’re nobler than that.”

Adaar laughed. “You are aware that my job as a mercenary was cleaning the corpses of the fallen? I’m an apostate, a necromancer, and an undertaker. I’d say a scavenger suits me just fine.”

Blackwall shook his head. He was digging himself deeper and deeper with this, he knew. Adaar was tall, Adaar was statuesque. Her horns swept back in twin arcs from her brow, capped with gold that matched the gold tips on her fingernails.

“You protected us from a tainted magister and his army of Red Templars back at Haven,” he said. “You defend the living from the dead, my lady. That is no ignoble feat.”

She touched the hollow of her throat and guffawed. Her daemon licked his chops and gave Blackwall a pitying look.

“Oh, you’re too sweet.” Adaar wiped her eyes with an enormous finger. “Too sweet.”

Months later, when she climbed into his hayloft and crawled into his bunk, he remembered the way her eyes glittered.

“You’re so sweet,” she whispered, as she dragged her golden nails down his chest. She kissed him, and she was so slippery down there that the head of his cock slipped right in without help from either of them. “So sweet.”

The coyote sat down on the planks beside Blackwall’s head. It embarrassed him, having the daemon watch him like that, but he felt cheered by the little dog-wolf’s approval, and gave himself over to pleasure for the first time in years.

 

* * *

 

“We need to take precaution with the mages,” said Cassandra. “There are untrained apprentices among them, and maleficar besides. A few Templars posted at the edges of their camp would be prudent.”

“Nah.” Cadash wasn't wearing a shirt, and sweat poured down his chest from a morning spent chopping firewood in the forest outside Haven. His beaver daemon was busy nearby, gnawing at the base of a pinetree. “I think we’re fine as it is.”

“And I am telling you, as a Seeker of Truth, we need to take care with these mages.”

Cadash wiped his brow. His broad, homely face was covered in sweat and dirt. He gazed into the distance at the glassy green glow of the Breach. For a moment, just a moment, Cassandra thought he was considering what she had said.

“Nah,” he said at last. “It’s good.”

“I am not annoying you simply to entertain myself.”

“No?”

“No. It is my duty to protect everyone in Haven from magical misuse. I hope you can see—”

The pine tree cracked. It tipped sidewalls, crashing downhill into the stream below. The beaver slapped the ground with her tail and chattered happily.

“I’m trying to build something here, same as you,” said Cadash. “And I don’t have any use for folks trying to kick around those who are just trying to get by. Either you keep your Templars in their place, or I will put them in their place.”

Blood rushed to Cassandra’s face. Her steppe eagle hissed from his perch above. “And how would you do that?”

The beaver daemon lumbered its way uphill. Its blubbery, rubbery body stood up before Cassandra, showing her its thick, orange teeth.

“By dropping a tree on their tents,” said Cadash. “While they sleep.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Cadash tilted his head. It was moments like this that Cassandra almost admired him. She would never have guessed that a greasy little smuggler would end up being so steadfast, or so stubborn. The more she got to know him, the more his beaver daemon made sense.

“Fine,” she said. “The consequences be yours.”

Cadash gave her a salute. The beaver lumbered its way back to the tree line and began gnawing on another trunk.

 


	12. The Trilogy (Zevran and Isabela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two rogues pay the Inquisitor a visit.

Trevelyan returned to his tower and found his bedroom door ajar. Whoever had broken in was either careless or wanted him to know what they had done.

They had also broken the magical ward he had placed on the lock, which was worrisome.

He pushed the door open with his foot. There was enough of a glow inside that it was clear someone had lit a fire.

The smart thing to would be to call his guards, but something in Trevelyan’s gut told him to wait. A moment later, a woman laughed.

“Are you coming up?” asked a man.

Trevelyan vaguely recognized the voice. He stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. He walked upstairs and found a man and a woman sitting on the couch. The woman’s tall boots were strewn across the floor, and she was digging her toes into the pile of his carpet.

“I used to have a fur rug just like this.” She slumped on the couch, running her feet over and over through the white shag. “You wouldn’t believe how filthy it got.”

“Knowing the kind of ship you run,” said the man in a heavy Antivan accent, “that does not surprise me.”

The woman was brawny and muscular. She was wearing a dark blue captain’s coat, and every inch of her was decked in gold. Her lip, her neck, and her ears were all studded with jewelry. Given the lines around her eyes and the threads of gray running through her dense black hair, she was somewhere north of forty.

Her companion was a golden-skinned elf with blonde hair pulled back into a knot. He was dressed in the black garb of a thief, and there was a ridiculous crow skull helm on the floor beside his feet.

“Zevran Arainai,” said Trevelyan. “Leliana’s guest. And Captain Isabela—”

“Varric’s guest,” she said with a wink.

Trevelyan had been introduced to them over breakfast. Zevran had done some favors for the Inquisition, and Isabela was a field operative. They had not been the most….formal of guests, but they had been charming enough, and neither was overawed by him or his title. That probably had something to do with why they had been foolish enough to break into his room. “I don’t have to tell you that entering the Inquisitor’s private quarters without his permission is a grave offense.”

“Probably,” said Isabela. “But we wanted to see it for ourselves.”

“And,” said Zevran, “we thought we might help you.”

“Oh?” said Trevelyan.

“You see,” said Zevran, “we’ve been talking to your friends.”

“They seem to think you need a bit of fun,” said Isabela.

“You’re always scowling,” said Zevran. “And you carry such tension in your shoulders.”

“You don’t say,” said Trevelyan.

“We thought we might show you a nice evening,” said Isabela. “A duel, even.”

“That sounds like it could be very unhealthy for me.”

“Not at all,” said Zevran. “Unless you don’t stretch beforehand.”

Trevelyan studied them. He would normally be deeply suspicious of anyone trying to insinuate themselves into the Inquisitor’s good graces, let alone his bed…. but he trusted Leliana and Varric’s instincts. They would never have invited these two to Skyhold if they posed any sort of threat.

That, and they were treating him like a normal man. They were comfortable in his presence, as if this wasn’t their first time speaking with someone who had been foist upon a pedestal. It put him strangely at ease.

Not that he let it show on his face. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well…” Zevran rose. He placed a hand on the Inquisitor’s hip.

“We were thinking….” Isabela came behind him. Trevelyan wasn’t sure how she’s gotten there. She pressed herself tight to his back, her arms sliding around his waist. Her breath smelled of lamb and curry, and her skin was hot. “We could spit roast you between us.”

Trevelyan huffed. “That’s bold.”

“We heard it on good authority that you’re a sweet boy under all that ice,” said Zevran, taking Trevelyan’s chin in his hand. The elf was looking at his mouth. “Think of us as your mother and father for the evening.”

“Disturbing,” said Trevelyan. “But—”

Zevran’s lips met his. The elf kissed him confidently, without hesitation. Trevelyan felt his thoughts turn to honey, as Isabela’s hands began unbuckling his belt.

"Dammit." Trevelyan pushed them away, alarmed at how quickly he’d been pulled under. His trousers fell around his ankles, revealing his erection. Isabela cackled.

“Don’t worry, _Jack_ ,” she whispered. “There’s no need to be the Inquisitor here.”

“Just let yourself enjoy this,” said Zevran pulling him back in.

Trevelyan swallowed. Was it truly that easy? Could he let the mask fall for one night without repercussion?

“In that case,” he said, huskily. “Please shut the door.”

 

* * *

 

After they had worn the Inquisitor out, Zevran and Isabela dug through his room. They stole a bottle of Tevinter whiskey from a drawer of his desk, as well as a pretty silver necklace. Then they left Trevelyan snoring softly in his bed, creeping down the stairs.

“Well,” said Zevran, “we’re three for three.”

“I sincerely hope someone remembers us for this,” said Isabela, yanking the cork out of the whiskey. “What are the odds of two people having fucked the Hero of Fereldan, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the Herald of Andraste?”

“We are a rare breed,” said Zevran. He snaked a hand around Isabela’s waist. “ And still young! Think of all the lands we have yet to conquer.”

“By the way,” said Isabela, kicking open the tower door and giving the two guards on the outside a fright. “Have you considered my offer?”

“About joining you in Tevinter?” Zevran chuckled. “My friend, I would follow you anywhere.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The greatest crime Bioware ever committed was not letting my Inquisitor get his brains fucked out by the bi-cons.


End file.
